


All's Well That Ends In A Well

by Signy1



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24080110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Signy1/pseuds/Signy1
Summary: Episode tag to 'The Well.' The secret documents have been safely retrieved from the bottom of the well, and so has Carter, but all is not yet well in Stalag 13. Since when does Carter snap at Hogan? For that matter, since when does he get angry at all? No question about it; something is very wrong, and it's up to an unlikely therapist to find out just what it is, and just what needs to be done about it. Revised/reposted from FF.net.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

“You really didn’t much like going down that well, did you.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t phrased as a question, and it wasn’t meant as one. Carter didn’t lose his temper often, and a bit of their habitual ‘I can’t believe we actually pulled that off’ teasing to relieve the habitual tension of habitually dancing on the edge of a firing squad should not have made him do so. Unless there was more to it.

Carter glared at him. Even delivered from the depths of a sodden blanket which was not doing much to stem some impressively violent shivering, the glare lost very little of its effectiveness. It was, sad to say, entirely wasted on a man who had been shrugging off dirty looks since he could crawl, but the effort was praiseworthy.

“I’ll just take that as a ‘no,’ then,” Newkirk said, and leaned against the bunk. Carefully positioning himself between Carter and the door. “Cheer up. Maybe the next jam we get ourselves into will be warm. Or dry, at least.”

“It’s not funny, Newkirk!” Carter snapped. “So why don’t you just take a hike?”

“Would that Klink thought the same way, mate. What are you so brassed off about?”

“What the heck do you care?”

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it? You’re going to sulk like a child because I can’t read your bleeding mind? I’m a _magician_ , lad, not a ruddy wizard.”

“I’m not sulking, and I don’t care what you think. So get lost!”

“I remember when Mavis was this age,” Newkirk told the rafters. “Tears and shouting and stamped feet. There were days I thought she’d poison my tea. And days I thought that, if she did, I’d be better off drinking it. Ah, memories. Look, Andrew, I’m not leaving. You can tell me why you’re about ready to tear me in strips, or you can take those balled up fists of yours and take your chances. One of those might get you an apology. The other’s not going to get you anything but a fat lip. Take your pick.”

“Get out of here! That… that’s an order! You’re just a corporal; I’m a sergeant, and I can give you orders if I want! Leave me alone!”

Newkirk lifted an eyebrow. “An order, is it? Goodness gracious, me oh my. Because I’m _such_ an obedient little soldier? I suppose you intend to have me shot at dawn if I disobey, as an example to the rest of the men? No, no, better yet— you’ll take my stripes. Or perhaps you’ll be merciful and just have me thrown in the cooler for insubordination.”

“Yeah! You’d better watch out, because I just might,” Carter said defiantly.

Newkirk clasped a hand to his brow. In a flat, uninterested voice entirely at odds with the dramatic gesture, he droned, “Oh, please, please, sir, not that. Have mercy on a poor humble wretch. Anything but that.” Dropping the sarcasm, he continued in a voice a shade or two warmer than usual. “Carter, you’re hurting. A blind man could see it. Tell me what the bleeding hell is wrong, before the Guv takes it into his head to come in here to drag it out of you himself. Wouldn’t you rather talk to me than an officer?”

Carter thought about that for a moment, dripping cold water and grease on the floor all the while. “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he said honestly.

“Hobson’s choice, mate. Is it the well? You did splendidly. What happened?”

Carter clutched his blanket a bit tighter and surrendered. It was such a relief to break down and admit it. “I can’t swim,” he said. “I was _scared_ down there. Really, really scared.”

Newkirk waited a beat for the rest of it. After a moment, when it became apparent that there _wasn’t_ any more, he shook his head, nonplussed. “Can’t blame you for that one,” he said slowly, obviously not understanding where the difficulty lay. “It got sticky there for a few minutes. Anyone would’ve been a bit scared.”

“Well, it wasn’t _anyone_ down there. It was me! And I thought I was going to drown! You guys dropped me! I trusted you to get me out safe, and _you dropped me!_ ”

Newkirk still didn’t get it. “What else could we have done? Let Klink and his goons grab you? With a packet of top-secret intelligence in your teeth, no less? You think that would’ve been _better?_ We didn’t want to do it, and I’m sorry you took the brunt of it, but it was either leave you in the drink for another two minutes or book ourselves all one way tickets to Gestapo Headquarters.”

“I was scared,” Carter repeated, not mollified in the least. He understood the logic; Newkirk had not told him anything he hadn’t already known.

This wasn’t about logic.

“Maybe so, but you still did the job you went down there to do, and you did it as well as anyone could’ve and better than most,” Newkirk said. “I can see this wasn’t easy on you, but we’ve all had our share of rotten assignments. Being scared is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“What do you know about it?” Carter spat. “You’re never afraid of anything.”

Newkirk stared at him for a moment, then chuckled mirthlessly, deep in his throat. “Fooled you too, then, did I?" he said. "Carter, I’m afraid every day God sends. From morning till night, and from dusk to dawn for good measure. Every bloody minute we’re here means sixty more chances for things to go pear-shaped, and it only takes one of them to see us all dead. _One_. You bet your arse I’m afraid. Every time I leave camp. Every time one of _you_ lot leaves camp. Every time some high-ranking Nazi troublemaker rolls in the gates. Every time the radio goes on, and every time it goes suspiciously silent. Look at us, mate! We’re spies and saboteurs, and we’re never more than thirty seconds away from a firing squad. Being afraid is the only sane response!”

“You never _act_ like you’re afraid,” Carter said, unconvinced. “I mean, sure, you always _say_ you’re a coward, five minutes before you do something brave, but everyone knows you’re only joking.”

“I’m usually saying it five minutes after the Colonel’s ordered me to do something suicidal, but that’s another story,” Newkirk said. “Look, Andrew. I’ve never yet known a day without something in it to be afraid of. Not one. Krauts, peelers, thugs, or worse, I’ve spent my entire life trying to keep one jump ahead of a world that would gladly see me dead. As a nipper, I was afraid of my dad, especially after mum died. Maybe he’d come home drunk and beat me bloody, or maybe he’d come home sober and beat me unconscious. I’m not brave, Carter. I just never had a _choice_.”

Carter wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly chilled by more than the icy water and icier air.

Newkirk nodded. “Yeah. You see what I’m talking about? I’ve got a lifetime’s experience at gritting my teeth and going about my business while waiting for the axe to fall. I’m good at pretending that I’m not scared. I’ve had to be. No choice to do otherwise; not ever. You, now… you had a choice.”

“What? No, I didn’t. The Colonel said—“

“I was there; I know what he said. But _you_ could’ve said no. You could’ve said, ‘Colonel, I can’t swim. Can’t go down there. No, sir.’ You could’ve said, ‘Newkirk, you old sod, _you_ dropped that bleeding codebook in the first place, _you_ retrieve it.’ You could’ve said, ‘LeBeau’s lighter than me. Let him do it, and I’ll take care of the diversion.’ You could’ve said a lot of things. But you didn’t. Instead, you did what had to be done in spite of being scared. What in hell do you think courage _is_?”

Carter blinked. That view of it had not occurred to him.

He had the feeling that he was going to be spending a lot of time considering it.

Newkirk pushed himself away from the bunk, obviously through with the conversation. “Right then, Andrew. Get yourself out of those wet clothes before you catch cold and expect a week’s worth of coddling. Which, just so we’re clear, you won’t be getting from me. And the next time something’s bothering you and you expect me to ruddy well read your mind about it, you daft bugger, I’ll toss you right back down that well, only this time, it’ll be without a rope.”

Carter translated that effortlessly as ‘I’m here for you,’ and he smiled. “Thanks, Newkirk,” he said. “And, you know, if anything’s ever bothering you… you could tell me about it, too, right?”

Newkirk, already at the door, turned back at that. After a long moment, the faintest hint of a smile quirking his lip, he said, “Why, Carter… whatever gave you the impression I don’t?”

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Author’s note: The phrase ‘Hobson’s choice’ means ‘no real choice at all’ and allegedly derives from a seventeenth-century livery stable owner named ‘Hobson.’ He would rent you any horse in his stable, so long as it was the one in the stall nearest the door. This allowed him to make sure that each horse got about the same amount of use, and that the better ones were not overworked. The customers were apparently less than delighted with the ‘take it or leave it’ system, hence the slightly bitter idiom, but presumably he managed to stay in business, and perhaps the horses appreciated the consideration.

Newkirk’s wisecrack about Mavis and the tea is a straight steal from Winston Churchill. He was, or so the story goes, being somewhat less than delightful at some society function, and the woman he was being rude to at that particular moment snapped, “Mr. Churchill, if I was your wife, I would put poison in your coffee.” Undaunted, he shot back, “Madam, if you were my wife, I would drink it.” This is not really relevant to anything, but it always makes me laugh, so I thought I’d share.

As for the actual story, Carter almost never shows his temper. The stinger scene from ‘The Well’ is, therefore, very, very unusual. And in a camp full of professional nosy parkers, there was no way that such an aberration was going to go unnoticed. So it seemed logical that Stalag 13’s answer to Sigmund Freud would deliver his very own brand of therapy. After all, there had to be _some_ reason that Hogan picked Newkirk to play the psychiatrist. (In ‘The Sergeant’s Analyst,’ as it happens. Why the psychiatrist had to be female is another can of worms altogether, but that’s a question for another time and another vignette.)


	2. Chapter 2

Sometime the next summer…

Carter, his hair still dripping in his eyes, looked rather pleased with himself.

Newkirk, equally soggy, looked as though he’d been dragged through Hell facedown. Twice.

Hogan leaned against the doorjamb. “Well?” he asked. “How’d it go?”

Carter beamed. “Boy! It was terrific,” he said happily. “I was never able to swim before, but by the end, I was definitely getting the idea.”

“That’s great, Carter,” Hogan said. “What do you think, Newkirk?”

“Yes, sir,” he said formally. “I regret to inform you that Gertrude Ederle he’s not.”

“I see,” Hogan said. “Well, we’ve got a train to derail tomorrow, but maybe the day after that the two of you can get in a bit more practice. I need to know that the next time we’ve got something aquatic on the agenda, all my men are ready for action.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Newkirk said. “As regards my assignment to the Frogman unit. Perhaps you could find something a bit less hazardous for me to do. Like assassinating Hitler with a nail file. Or maybe taking down a panzer division with my bare hands. Send _me_ to the Russian Front if you’d like.” He glared at thin air six inches over Hogan’s head. “You know, sir. Something where I’d have at least _some_ sort of chance at coming out of it in one bloody piece.”

Hogan looked from one to the other; Carter hunched his shoulders a bit under his CO’s questioning stare. “I _said_ I was sorry,” he muttered. “It was an accident.”

“ _What_ was an accident?” Hogan asked.

“Well… I was doing pretty good there for a while,” Carter began. “Honest; I was. But something happened, and I got some water up my nose and I guess it sort of went down the wrong pipe, and I, um, forgot to float, so Newkirk had to dive down and try to pull me back to the surface, and I kind of panicked a little…”

“And what does the git do but grab me and try to climb onto my bleeding shoulders,” Newkirk growled. “In eight feet of water. Shoved me under and kept me there. By the time I was able to get him to let go, everything was going dark around the edges.”

“Yeah, and tell him how you ‘got me to let go,’” Carter challenged, all traces of guilt vanishing like tissue paper in a blast furnace. “He _bit_ me!” He displayed his left forearm, indignant out of all proportion to an entirely invisible wound. 

“Well, tapping you on the ruddy shoulder and asking politely wasn’t getting me anywhere but Davy Jones’ Locker!” Newkirk snapped. “Once I’d gotten a breath, sir, I towed us both back to shore, where I could watch my life flashing before my eyes in peace.”

Hogan stifled a smile. “Good thinking,” he said. “Accidents do happen.”

“Yes, sir, accidents do happen,” Newkirk agreed bitterly. “And then they happen twice more after that. Better than a U-boat, he is. If I’d wanted to drown, I’d’ve joined the bleeding navy.”

“The navy, huh?”

“You know what they say, Guv. Rum, sodomy, and the lash I can handle. Carter is another story entirely.”

Hogan pushed himself upright. “Well, Admiral, we can worry about that _after_ we’ve blown up the train,” he said. “Maybe Kinch can take over as swim coach. It would do him good to get out of the tunnel for a change.”

Carter, hangdog and crestfallen once more, tried to smile. Newkirk flicked a sharp look his way, then said, “No, sir; you leave Kinch out of it. He’s got enough troubles of his own without handing him mine. I started the bloody job, I’ll finish it. Carter here is going to learn to swim if it takes me the rest of the war. Or the rest of my life, whichever comes first. As soon as we’ve put paid to the train I’ll see about scrounging him a life preserver, so he’s got something to grab what isn’t _me_ , and we can go from there.”

Carter perked up immediately; Newkirk rolled his eyes in an irritated sort of way that didn’t fool anyone for a second, and that seemed to be that.

Hogan found Carter down in the tunnels later that afternoon, putting the finishing touches on the incendiaries they would need for the train job. He picked one up, examined it casually. Perfect, as usual. “Accident, huh?” he asked casually.

Carter blushed a bit. “Well, the first time I did panic, honest I did. I didn’t mean to do it. And the second time… well, yeah, that was definitely an accident, too, and he was fine after a minute or two, so it was really okay.”

Making a mental note not to inquire too deeply about Carter’s idea of ‘not okay,’ Hogan asked, “And the third time?”

Carter picked up the bomb, admired it from all angles. “By the end, I was getting pretty good at treading water,” he said. “I only held him underwater for a minute.” 

Hogan shook his head, and maintained a stern, Commanding Officer Disciplinary Demeanor, while telling the little voice in the back of his head, the one who was choking on incoherent laughter, that now was _not the time_.

“Well, he shouldn’t have dropped me down that well,” Carter defended himself. “Boy! What else could I have done?” He corrected himself. “…Sir.”

“You do realize that we still kind of need him, right? That drowning your teammates is a real breach of military etiquette?” Hogan amped up the Stern Look a few more degrees. “No more fooling around. You’re going to learn how to swim, and I mean _pronto._ That’s an order! And if I hear any more about you trying to send Newkirk to a watery grave, I’ll bite you myself!”

“Yes, sir,” Carter said, wide-eyed.

“Good. Now finish those bombs, Sergeant,” Hogan said sharply, then grinned. “And next time you two clowns go for a swim, I’m coming to watch. With popcorn.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hogan didn’t attend the next swimming lesson after all, and that was a good thing. It had been more than a little discouraging, for both Newkirk and Carter, even without any ‘accidents.’ Carter was now reliably able to tread water, with or without the life preserver. That was good. Kicking his legs was self-explanatory. Good. He could manage the hand-over-hand motion of the crawl. Also good. Timing it so that he turned his head to catch a breath when his arms weren’t in the way was a somewhat spottier proposition. Not so good. And doing all of those things at the same time was becoming _harder_ the more he tried, rather than easier. Definitely not so good.

Carter, the dictionary definition of the eternal optimist, was losing faith in his ability to learn to swim. Not good at all.

“All right, Andrew, let’s take a break, shall we?” Newkirk, looking about as frustrated as Carter felt, towed Carter back to the shore yet again. “You just… you just rest here for a few minutes. I’m going for a quick lap across the pond and back before my muscles cramp up.”

“Sure thing,” Carter said gloomily, as he watched Newkirk set off across the water, with crisp, clean strokes that made Carter feel even more inadequate than he already did. He picked up a pebble and threw it into the water with a _kerplunk_ ; it sank like the stone it was. It swam about as well as he did, he thought bitterly.

Newkirk was probably disappointed in him. Justifiably so. And, when they got back to camp, the Colonel was going to be disappointed in him, too. Carter didn’t know which was worse. Both of them were worse. And he was disappointed in himself, and that was worse, too.

Newkirk wasn’t even giving him grief about his mistakes anymore. Things had to be pretty bad before Newkirk ran out of barbed commentary; now he was being calm, neutrally encouraging and patient, just like he always did when the fat was _really_ in the fire, and Carter hated it.

Newkirk reached the other side, turned around, and began the return leg. He was probably going to tell the Colonel that it was no good, Carter was too clumsy, too uncoordinated, too dumb to learn. And he’d be right. Heck, he _had_ to tell the Colonel; it was the only responsible thing to do. The Colonel needed to know if one of his men couldn’t cut the mustard, and if Carter couldn’t be counted on to do the job, then by gosh he _deserved_ to be kicked off the team and replaced by somebody who could. Maybe— _maybe—_ he’d be allowed to stay in the tunnels and build bombs, but he certainly wouldn’t be allowed to go on missions, wouldn’t really be part of the team anymore. And it was only fair, too.

Or else the Colonel would just cut his losses, wash his hands of the whole mess, and send Carter back to London. And it was a measure of how upside-down and backwards this whole crazy war had become that he was heartbroken at the idea of being shipped off to freedom, while some other mug—one who knew how to swim—took _his_ job, and _his_ bunk, and _his_ spot in the roll-call.

He already hated that theoretical other fellow, whoever he would turn out to be. Boy, he really hated his rotten guts. And Newkirk—

And Newkirk had let out a strangled yelp, right in the deepest part of the pond, and clutched his side, right before sinking underwater. Carter shot to his feet, heart pounding like a drum and eyes wide. “Newkirk? _Newkirk!_ ”

Newkirk thrashed his way to the surface, long enough for one frantic gasp, before going under again. The water churned for a moment, then went still.

Carter didn’t even think about it. He couldn’t think. He just threw himself into the water, kicked away from the bank, his arms slicing the water like a machine. There was no time to think, no time for anything; there was only the need to _move_ , to get across the treacherous expanse, and force the pond, force the dark waters, force God or Fate or _whoever_ was running this show to fix this terrible mistake before something bad happened, something that could never ever be made right again. Carter took a deep breath and strained every muscle for those last couple of feet, grabbed at a pale figure floating motionless in the cool water, and dragged him above the surface.

They had been in the water for a long time; they were both chilled, and Carter couldn’t tell if Newkirk was colder than an hour in the water should have left him. He couldn’t be dead. Carter wouldn’t _let_ him be dead. He would tow him back to shore, and everything would be all right. It had to be. He crooked an arm around Newkirk, began swimming back to shore. One stroke. Another.

“Fair warning, Carter—if you try to give me the kiss of life we’ll both live to regret it.”

Carter was so shocked that he promptly got water up his nose and choked.

“Easy, mate,” Newkirk said, reaching to steady Carter as he got his breath back. “Deep breath. That’s right.”

“You… you weren’t drowning?” Carter’s panic converted to anger at roughly the speed of light. “You were never drowning at all? You—you rat fink! That was an awful thing to do!”

“Worked, though, didn’t it?”

“That was _mean_ , Newkirk! That was really mean!” Carter was not mollified. “You _scared_ me!”

“I meant to,” Newkirk said. “I know you, Andrew. If you needed to swim because you needed to swim, we’d be here till doomsday. If you needed to swim because _I_ needed you to swim, you’d be outdoing Johnny Weissmuller before you could say knife. And you did.”

Carter opened his mouth, closed it again.

Newkirk lay back in the water, treading effortlessly. “That’s always how you are. You get the wind up, you second guess yourself, you fret… and when it matters, you forget all about being nervous and do a smashing job. Every ruddy time. You’re that sort; you’ll always come through for a mate.” He smiled. “I knew you _could_ do it. All you needed was a reason to forget that you couldn’t. So I gave you one.” 

“…Oh,” Carter said. “Thanks. I think.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Newkirk. “But now that you’re officially a swimmer, I can say that if you duck me again, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Carter blushed. “You knew I did it on purpose that last time, huh?”

“Where else would I’ve gotten the idea to fake a drowning? Turnabout’s fair play.”

Carter felt his cheeks burning redder still, then, suddenly, he laughed. “You’re right. I guess it is,” he said. “Say, Newkirk? Thanks. For everything.”

He flipped a hand expansively. “Any time, Andrew. Now let’s get out of this sodding mud puddle and back to camp.”

As they walked back to camp, soggy but in far better spirits than the last time, Carter was unwontedly quiet. Newkirk didn’t hand out compliments all that readily; Carter wanted to savor this one. _When it matters, you do a smashing job. You’ll always come through for a mate._

He sneaked a look at Newkirk, striding doggedly along, eyes darting from side to side, intently watching for danger, and grimly ready for it when it came. _You’re that sort, too, aren’t you?_ Carter thought. _You’ll always come through for a pal._

They made it to the tree stump, cracked it open. Carter hopped nimbly into the tunnel and down the ladder, head abuzz. He would tell the Colonel that he could swim now; the Colonel would probably be really happy to hear it. And he wouldn’t send Carter back to London after all. He could stay here, with his pals. In Germany. In jail. Cold and hungry, digging tunnels half the day and doing dangerous stuff half the night. A spy and a saboteur, never more than thirty seconds away from a firing squad. All of them. Together.

_Boy!_ _I’ve got to be the luckiest guy in the world._

*****************

Author’s note: Alas, the ‘kiss of life’ resuscitation method was not developed until after WWII, and that reference is thus a complete and utter anachronism. I freely admit it. But since the mental image amused me too much to cut the line. Consider your pardon begged. 


End file.
